


Circling Formula

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Drug Addiction, Experimentation, M/M, miklan typical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Drugs, chess and happiness
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 24
Kudos: 130
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> :'))))))

The liquid in the vial looks translucent enough to be confused with water. Moves like it, smells like it. But when Sylvain first sets his eyes on it, he knows better. He inexplicably _feels_ just how special that liquid is. Granted, he had already been told all there is to know about it. It doesn’t stop him from fantasizing his personal connection to it when he pockets the treasured item.

He toys with it for a while. Looks at it under every angle, inspecting. It’s laughable how innocent it looks. Sylvain loves that about it.

He checks his door is locked for the last time.

He’s careful not to get clumsy in his eagerness. Then, perfectly, the liquid flows down his throat.

He screws his eyes shut.

He lies down, fully relaxing. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

He’s _happy_.

* * *

“Dad went this way.” Sylvain informs, hands hovering uselessly in the direction they should most definitely take and opposite to where Miklan is headed.

The familiar look of pure hatred Miklan has when he turns to look at Sylvain is indication enough that he should shut up now. He considers leaving his brother there and follow his dad. Against his better judgment, he decides he should wait for Miklan, because that’s what nice people are supposed to do.

He regrets that choice in the first ten minutes. Miklan doesn’t look like he knows where he’s going, and stops to look around every now and then. He doesn’t seem to notice his brother not so subtly trailing him. Then, after a nth stop Miklan smiles broadly, before hugging a complete stranger. Stupidly the first thought that comes to Sylvain’s mind is – so he can hug people?

He’s far from regretting his choice the second the stranger pulls out from his bag a handful of objects Miklan transfers to his own bag without a single trace of hesitancy in his movements. It’s obvious this has happened before. Forgotten all annoyance, Sylvain finds himself extremely curious.

Once the transaction over Miklan inevitably turns back on his heels and towards Sylvain. He spots him, looking half surprised. His hand raises dangerously and Sylvain braces himself for a hit that never comes. Instead Miklan reaches for his bag, looks for something and finds it. He yanks on Sylvain’s arm, pushing into his palm a handful of pills. He smiles. “Some candies for the golden child. You like them right?” He waits for an answer that doesn’t come. His grasp is tighter on Sylvain’s arm. “You’ll eat them up, right? It’s a gift. For you. Wouldn’t want to make me regret giving it to you, would you?”

Sylvain weakly nods.

Miklan smiles. It cuts deeper than any blade.

* * *

Sylvain has never truly developed an interest for magic and its intricacy. He feels like he knows more than enough, that being the basics and all the _hypothetical_ uses there are of it. It has never crossed his mind to make it his specialty, an endeavor doomed to fail due to his pathological laziness. The officer’s academy however houses people seemingly crazy enough to put their all into said art. Fresh out of Fhirdiad’s best magical school, they are probably the most knowledgeable people Sylvain can find about magic. (Excluding professors. Doesn’t sound like a good idea, even to Sylvain.)

In theory it is quite simple. Simply, Sylvain cannot see himself mentioning to pretty ladies such as Annette or Mercedes his less flattering tendencies. Even less so to the prancing violet-head noble from the golden deer. He also miraculously hears about another quite skilled mage among same golden deer, but cancels any plan to seek them out when it turns out she happens to be a fifteen years old lady with a temper.

Needless to say, his options are limited. One month into the school year he’s almost ready to admit defeat. That was before Dorothea openly laughed at his face saying he _should have told her_ , and that _she knows just the person._ That is how Sylvain is introduced to Linhardt, or more specifically Linhardt’s _relaxing_ plants. It’s around the same time Sylvain notices the shadows sometimes watching him. But at that time too, it hardly mattered. Sylvain was used to the paranoia and this kind of attention didn’t affect him nearly as much as it would have ten years prior.

* * *

T he clack clack clack of his pen’s tapping resonates in the classroom.

“Oh for fuck’s sake Sylvain will you _please_ stop?!” Ingrid nearly shouts, startling everybody around them. Byleth stops talking. Sylvain looks up to see all the other blue lions staring at him with varying degrees of worried and angry. It takes him another thirty seconds to understand he still hasn’t stopped the tapping. The awareness finally makes him stop. Knowing Ingrid, this is probably not her first attempt at getting him to stop.

He lowers his head bashfully. “Sorry.”

The lesson resumes shortly after. Ingrid whispers-shouts, mostly to herself. “What is  _wrong_ with you, seriously.”

Sylvain shrugs to no one, eyes going back to staring at something non existent.

* * *

His father eyes him suspiciously at dinner. Sylvain doesn’t think he’s done anything to anger him the slightest. Instead of scolding him, his father asks. “Are you feeling okay, Sylvain?”

Sylvain giggles, shoving more food into his mouth. “Yeah!” He doesn’t know why everyone is looking at him specifically, all he feels is happy. Happier than he has been in months. Miklan is smiling too. That doesn’t feel as bad as it usually does.

“Sylvie is happy cause he got to play with me. Isn’t that right Sylvie?”

Sluggishly Sylvain remembers how wrong Miklan is, but right now he can’t fathom why. He settles for another bright smile. Their father is smiling too now. Sylvain can’t remember why he hates family dinners so much.

* * *

Sylvain hates Byleth.

He hates the lack of feeling in his eyes. He hates how good he is at slicing bodies in two. He hates how utterly independent he is. He hates his hair,  his eyes . He hates how quickly everybody gets on their knees almost begging to suck his dick, just like that, just because  _Byleth is so cool_ .

Byleth isn’t shackled. Byleth is as free as the wind, and could go anywhere without anyone stopping him. Byleth is free, and Sylvain hates him for it.

* * *

Things get worse before they get better.

In Sylvain’s humble opinion, that is horribly wrong. Things are absolutely great, amazing even, then it gets bad. Really bad. And it never truly stops.

He vomits all over the expensive carpet of his room, desperately wrapping his arms around himself. There’s nothing quite like the taste of the mashed potatoes from the dining hall mixed with cheap alcohol. Sylvain would laugh if his mouth wasn’t currently occupied emptying his stomach. It is significantly less amusing for the girl who has probably reached the stairs from how quickly she bolted. Sylvain Jose Gautier is a sexy man, less so when he’s covering himself in vomit and babbling about how gross he’s always been.

He can’t stop his body from shaking. Five minutes later he drops all pretense of ever finding all of that remotely funny and breaks down crying. All types of fluids mix, and Sylvain can’t remember why he thought he might be worth more than this pathetic excuse of a man.

* * *

“So…” He puts on his best hopeful-not-too-cheerful tone. “I’ve been hearing about you.”

Hubert barely glances at him, wholly unimpressed. “That is likely.”

Sylvain grins, sliding his chair closer to his target. “Broody man. Scary. Terrifying shadow. Lady babysitter.” Said Lady currently not enjoying her meal with the man usually so glued to her boot, instead having the pleasure of the company of lovely ladies a couple tables farther.

That seems to hit a nerve. His eye narrow menacingly, as a fair warning. “What is it that you want, Gautier.”

Sylvain chuckles, used to this kind of irritability all too well. “Well, I hoped we could talk about some stuff. In a more private setting maybe.” He adds a wink for good measure.

Once again Hubert seems thoughtful. “Stuff…”

Sylvain tries not to sound too desperate, scratching his neck. “Well you know,” He pauses for the dramatics. “Linhardt-aligned stuff.”

That accentuates the disdain on Hubert’s face, if possible. “I don’t do this _stuff_.” He scoffs.

“Well, maybe we could have this passionate conversation elsewhere, if you catch my drift.” He had counted on the fact Hubert of all people would understand Sylvain’s need for discretion. Hubert has no such consideration.

“No.”

He doesn’t manage to get a different answer the five next times he asks.

* * *

“Spar with me.”

It is not meant as a question as much as a demand, sword shoved into his hands. Sylvain doesn’t have it in him to deny his friend. He steels himself for the upcoming attacks that don’t fail to surprise him by their intensity.

Unfortunately for Felix, Sylvain hasn’t exactly been at his best for the last week and doesn’t offer a good fight. Doesn’t even offer a fight at all, and keels over within the first five minutes. In retrospect he realizes he should have said something, warned Felix about his state, no matter how badly he hadn’t wanted to.

He laughs when Manuela tells him about the gravity of his wound. The zoltan sword opened a hole in his shoulder. He doesn’t remember ever being injured that badly in his entire life, and likes that Felix was the one to cause it. Who else? It’s almost poetic. Felix doesn’t think so. “You think – you think you can laugh about that?!” The truth is, Sylvain doesn’t know what else to do. Should he apologize? Should be look sad? No matter how he looks at it, none of that would please Felix. Nothing he’ll do will ever, ever please Felix. He does the next best thing, and grins widely. Felix is out of the room almost instantly.

Ingrid and Dimitri come to visit at different times, wearing the same disappointed but not surprised look. Sylvain can relate. Then they look at him with pity, and he regrets the sword not having pierced him closer to his heart. No one comes to visit after that.

He doesn’t know how he manages to conceal how utterly pathetic he feels in the next few days, but somehow he does and Manuela doesn’t comment on it. Then comes the blessed day. Sylvain almost believes in the goddess, for Manuela offers him some complements to ease the pain and help his body adjust to the accelerated recovery from white magic. It’s emergency stuff, to dull the aches, ease the mind. It is the latest part that Sylvain knows very well. He pretends to swallow everything Manuela gives him, and expertly hides the precious medicine when she’s not looking. She gives him more, and two days later his stash got significantly bigger.

He’ll be out of the infirmary the next day, and intends on enjoying the last day at its fullest. He swallows down all the accumulated complements, and is knocked out for the most part of it. He wakes up groggy, and infinitely _happy_.

* * *

He keeps pestering Hubert, not having completely given up.

It is true he’s heard about the man. More specifically, the man’s inclinations towards darker magic practices. And from what he’s heard, the man himself is cunning but also ruthless – an overall stereotype of the kind of person Sylvain is looking for. If there’s a way he can make him budge and actually talk to Sylvain, he’ll find it.

* * *

It is not quite pity Yuri looks at him with. But it’s a close thing, and it pisses Sylvain off a little bit. “No.”

Sylvain is also growing tired of having the same answer thrown back at his face over and over again. He makes sure his demeanor doesn’t betray any of these thoughts. “Oh come on! Help a guy out would you?”

Yuri squints, trying and failing to decode Sylvain’s thoughts. “Your brother died last week.”

Sylvain doesn’t as much as flinch. His smiles drops nonetheless. “I fail to see how this concerns you.” He’s himself surprised by the bite into his tone. Yuri is too, eyes widening ever so slightly. Sylvain tries to smile, but it falls short. “Now please help me, I’ll do anything.” He hates how genuine it comes out.

Yuri studies him carefully. Then looks away apathetically. “I’ve seen guys like you. I know how this kind of story ends. And see, I swore to help people. I’m helping you right now, even if you don’t want to see it yet.”

Sylvain’s hand twitches. He wants to lash out, and argue. He wants to shake Yuri’s shoulders, tell how much of an asshole he is. Instead he stares, and thinks. None of that will change Yuri’s mind. Actually, nothing at all will change Yuri’s mind. Sylvain decides he’s done wasting his time and starts the walk back to the monastery. So much for the darker parts of the Abyss.

* * *

He does not mean to cry. If there was something he could’ve done to make himself do literally anything else but that, he would have. Instead he weeps, and the girl’s comforting arms close around him. He feels like he should apologize, put back on his clothes and go back to his dorm now. But the tears don’t stop. And as confused as she is, the girl is still there.

Just three words. He had been kissing her neck, letting his hands wander all over her naked body when she breathed out _I like you_. She didn’t even mean it half as much as Sylvain felt she did, simply another encouragement for their quick adventure. But it touched something deep, something buried so deep into Sylvain he had forgotten it even existed. Something he starts to realize is broken, never to be repaired again.

His sobs don’t stop. Embarrassingly, they remain wrapped in each others arms, naked, for the rest of the night. When morning comes, the nameless girl awkwardly grabs her clothes, and slips out after offering a simple kiss on Sylvain’s cheek. Sylvain lingers, crying a few more hours with no one to hold him anymore.

He hardly hears Ingrid’s scolding later that day.

* * *

Inexplicably, Hubert comes to him one day. In a well too formal manner, asks Sylvain to follow him. They take new stairs Sylvain had never even heard of, cross many unoccupied large rooms. Until Hubert slows down, pulls out a key and opens the door to a seemingly often used storage room. There are a few clean desks and chairs. The putrid air is at best uncomfortable, and the mess all around is indication enough whatever happens here isn’t very church approved.

“The church has agreed to let us borrow this room. Consider yourself lucky to see it, not many know about it.”

As if he’s done so a great number of times, Hubert goes to check on vials on a dusty shelf. Sylvain watches meticulously, absolutely delighted. “Us?” He questions.

Hubert gestures to a game set, on an opposite corner of the room, but never tearing his eyes away from the vials. “Officially, you have just walked into Garreg Mach’s first and only chess club.”

Sylvain notes Hubert knowingly ignored to answer who the ‘us’ refers to. He peers around, hoping to find clues but coming short. “Consider me honored.”

Once his routine over, Hubert pulls them both a seat. Sylvain feels his fingers thrum in anticipation. Hubert has his arms crossed, face severe. “You wished to speak with me.” He states.

Sylvain grins. “I did. Are you amenable to listen?” Hubert doesn’t dignify him with an answer. “I’d like you to work your magic on me. Make me feel real good, you get me?”

“My magic can be a lot of things, but pleasant isn’t exactly part of the repertoire.”

Sylvain knows that is true. He also knows this kind of thing would come easy to Hubert if he tried, and that Hubert knows this too. “And yet here I am. Meaning you are amenable to try, aren’t you?”

Hubert’s face does not give away a single emotion. “Why.”

Sylvain blinks, caught by surprise. “What?”

“Why me. Linhardt would be more than willing to do this for you.” He explains.

Sylvain leans back in his seat, thoughtful. “Linhardt is a nice guy. Too nice actually. He wouldn’t create anything if he knew there were risks.” The relaxing plants had been truly good for a while, Sylvain won’t deny it. But mostly all they made him feel was sleepy. That had probably been the intended purpose anyway. Linhardt also came up with more euphoric spells, but was reluctant to make a habit of using them for people.

Things with Hubert would be much different. No ethics in sight, just efficacy. They share a meaningful gaze and Sylvain knows Hubert understands. “I don’t do things for free.” His smile is wicked. Sylvain expected no less. He gives him time to continue. “I must admit I am rather… curious about this endeavor. Spells to create alternative states of consciousness, hallucinations, driving a man mad with nothing more than a push in the right direction, it… has its appeal. The maddening slowness of this kind of torture has always infuriated me of course, but I’ve recently begun to reconsider some things.” He pauses. “I would be _amenable_ to help you, if you gave yourself to me completely.”

Sylvain nips his lower lip, spreading his legs in a suggestive manner. “Oh yeah? Gotta give it to you Hubert, you’re nastier than people give you credit for.”

Hubert doesn’t move an inch. “You on the other hand, completely match your reputation. I merely need a guinea pig and you seem to fit the description. Desperate to be of use, with nothing to lose.”

If Sylvain had any shame left, he would feel offended. Instead he huffs a dry laugh and doesn’t deny anything. “Careful Hubert, you’re starting to sound desperate too. What if I said no?”

Hubert answers with clear certainty. “You won’t. You don’t have any other options.”

And how does Hubert knows _that_ Sylvain has no idea. But he can’t exactly argue. He’s made his choice a long time ago. If that comes at the price of letting a weirdo stick needles into him or whatever else he wishes to do then so be it. Sylvain doesn’t have any sort of shame or pride left.

* * *

He doesn’t recall how he got there. All he knows is that the sky is huge. Has it ever been so big? His lungs feel filled for the first time since forever. He doesn’t just exist, he _lives_. His body feels no longer trapped in a two dimensional world. He reaches for the stars, experiencing depth for the first time. Everything has texture now. The grass, his clothes, his flesh. It’s exhilarating.

He almost doesn’t catch the small voice trying to grab his attention. In his field of vision enters a new person, upside down. Sylvain’s lips quirk up. The figure calls him again. “Sylvain?”

Sylvain’s eyes stay glued on the night sky. “That would be me.”

The figure shifts closer, then away, lying right next to Sylvain. So close, yet so far. They don’t let the silence stretch. “Star watching? Mind if I join?”

Sylvain giggles. “Nah man. This is the best spot.” His hand points at the sky. “No trees. Just stars.” The other person makes a sound of agreement. This is the most peaceful Sylvain has felt in a while. If he listens close enough, he can hear the other breathing. If he listens close enough, he can hear the sea, miles away. If he closes his eyes, “You can feel the Earth spinning.”

There’s a scoff, then a sigh. “Yeah.”

Sylvain reaches for their hand, desperate to cling to something as to not fall over. He’s afraid he might disappear if he doesn’t hold on hard enough. They squeeze back. Sylvain no longer remembers if it’s the Earth or his own head spinning.

“Are you okay?”

He realizes his hands feel clammy. Is he sweating? “Yeah.” He slurs. “You?” He adds, mostly about of habit.

No answer ever comes. He wakes up in his bed the next morning, with no clue as to who brought him back.

* * *

Sylvain is good at ignoring the suspicious looks on his friend’s faces. He knows he has been disappearing at lot more often lately, and somehow they know he doesn’t spend that time in town with girls. Maybe that’s why they look actually worried. Sylvain feels a bit bad. That doesn’t stop him from going to the so called chess club every chance he gets.

Often, Hubert isn’t there. Sylvain was starting to suspect the ‘us’ had been a trick to torment him, when finally it happened:

In the usually so depressing room stood in the spot Sylvain thought unoccupied Claude von Riegan. Sylvain hadn’t had the pleasure of his acquaintance yet, but that was apparently about to change. The well known schemer smiles knowingly at him, as Sylvain closes the door. He tries for casual, tone half surprised. “Oh, never seen the likes of you before. Come here often?”

The teasing doesn’t earn him as much as a blush. “You could say that. I take it Hubert hasn’t mentioned me?”

Sylvain pretends he knows his way into Hubert’s stuff, actually poking at unknown substance to mess around with said man. “I mean, it’s Hubert.” He tries again to wear an enticing smirk, catching Claude’s careful gaze. “Did he mention me though? I think I’m his favorite, sorry.”

That gets a chuckle out of Claude. “He didn’t have to. I haven’t seen him this excited since well, since I’ve known him.”

That is a lot of information Sylvain commits to memory. But what interests him right now is, “And how long is that?”

That hits very accurately. Claude pauses to look at him like he didn’t expect Sylvain to ask about that. “Some time.” He eventually settles for. “We bonded over disdain for the church.” He says, as if he dares Sylvain to comment on that.

It’s Sylvain’s turn to openly laugh. He might have underestimated this Riegan kid. “Blasphemous! I didn’t know chess players were all this naughty.”

Claude abandons whatever he had been doing in favor of getting the chess board and setting up a game. Sylvain gets the hint and sits across. “You’d be surprised. But my guts tell me you’re more fun company than Hubert.”

Sylvain doesn’t force the smile on his lips. “I don’t have to try very hard.” Claude moves his pawn. “But enough about the shadow man, tell me more about yourself.”

And Claude does. Admittedly, not a lot, but enough to satiate Sylvain’s curiosity. He talks about himself in return, seemingly pleasing Claude. The game is cut short when Hubert interrupts them and asks Sylvain to follow him. He agrees, not without a fight because _Is this really a chess club if you don’t get to play chess_ but Hubert is not easily swayed.

* * *

He knows Hubert is watching him. Has been for a while, probably. And Sylvain thinks to himself, damn, this guy has a lot of time to waste.

* * *

Hubert doesn’t stick any needles in Sylvain, but it’s a close thing. He does however rub all kinds of substances on Sylvain’s skin, prodding and touching until he is satisfied enough with the result. He makes Sylvain drink his more than questionable experiments, and asks him to describe exactly just how he feels. Sylvain always walks out of their sessions a variation of dizzy, or with a new a patch of burned, scarred skin that no white magic can ever quite fully heal.

Sylvain teases Hubert more than once about the intimate nature of their encounters. Pretty often, he’s shirtless, hubert’s tantalizing fingers touching him all over. It’s a fragile thing almost. Hubert never reacts in any way to these comments, and horribly Sylvain feels _embarrassed_. He didn’t know that was possible.

The rare times Claude is there during the sessions, he doesn’t comment either. He keeps very quiet on the contrary. By now though, Sylvain knows Claude isn’t always a quiet guy, and would never miss an opportunity to laugh and have a good time. It gets Sylvain wondering. Is it the nature of Hubert’s morbid curiosity that puts him off? He never truly spoke about what his opinion is on Sylvain and Hubert’s arrangement. It wouldn’t surprise Sylvain if he completely disagreed with Hubert’s methods, as that would explain the slight worry in his eyes when he steals glances in Sylvain’s direction.

If Sylvain’s right, then it’s no good. He wouldn’t want to fuck around and actually make Claude _care_ about him on accident. They still occasionally talk, amicably, but know better than actually confide in each other. Sylvain finds that he likes it that way.

* * *

This time, Hubert does put a needle in him.

Sylvain doesn’t pretend he doesn’t feel more nauseous than usual, and passes out for an undetermined length of time. Hubert is still there when he wakes up. Sylvain’s body is soaked in sweat, his eyes have a hard time focusing on anything that isn’t blurry.

He feels a bit out if it, but listens to Hubert’s low voice anyway. “This is excellent results. I did not expect that. We might be able to move on soon.”

His throat is dry, but Sylvain manages to chuckle. “What, not even a thank you? I’m half dead you know.”

Hubert scoffs, but comes to stand next to him seconds later. His hand cups Sylvain’s cheek. It feels like fire, compared to the coldness spreading in his body. “You would be a much more useful help if you were a corpse, Gautier.”

Sylvain knows that. And for a moment, he envisions it. His dead body, forever in this cramped room, opened and pulled apart in all direction, desacralized in every way. Part of him feels horrified at how vividly these images come to him. Another part, lightheaded, wishes that were his destiny. Hubert shows no mercy in finishing him off, and Sylvain still wakes up the next morning.

Sylvain will never understand why Hubert doesn’t hold such slow, repetitive torture to higher standards. Because every day, Sylvain wakes up, and he knows. This is hell.

* * *

His first meeting with Ingrid, Felix and Dimitri goes the way every event follows after. With him as a spectator.

They all already know each other, are closer in age and already share the same hobbies. Ingrid is betrothed to Felix’s brother, Dimitri and Felix call themselves best friends. Sylvain is thrust upon their blooming friendship too late, awkwardly, and nobody ever explains to him why, or what he’s supposed to do about it. He understands, years later, that his father simply thought it would set for Sylvain a good example, and help him strengthen his relationships with the other heirs.

Despite their rough start, Sylvain is a natural and quickly learns how to make them like him. Before he knows it, they have established a routine that Sylvain now fits into. He and Ingrid would spar, Felix would come play with him whenever he and Dimitri had a minor argument. Yet, he doesn’t exactly grow close to Dimitri. When the young prince isn’t playing with Felix he is occupied training intensively. He seems to firmly believe he has to grow into a stronger person even, and already carries himself like a kind king. Sometimes they watch him, swinging his sword against Felix’s madly talented brother, Glenn, whose skill remains unmatched among the children.

Sylvain hates Glenn. He’s a year older than him, but the gap feels greater than that. What Glenn has done, Sylvain won’t be able to achieve it within another five years. It’s maddening to see him grow into a man, when at home Miklan still occasionally calls Sylvain a baby. He and Glenn have to talk, eventually, but it is clear Glenn doesn’t like him either. They almost reach a kind of companionship, acknowledging their shared dislike for one another. Perhaps under different circumstances, Sylvain thinks they might have been great friends. Then Glenn dies, and it’s never truly the same.

Before the rebellion, Sylvain meets with Felix and Dimitri a few times. They look miserable. For the first time in his life, Sylvain doesn’t feel alone. They feel miserable, and Sylvain feels relieved. They don’t seem to understand that, and maybe that’s why during that time he uses.

Ingrid lost a dear friend and a mentor, that is why he doesn’t mind when she slaps him after a particularly crude remark. She has it worse than him, they all do. Sylvain doesn’t remember much of these years. He knows Faerghus is falling apart, his friends too, but other than that there’s nothing. White noise.

Miklan is long gone, and his father a little more desperate every day. Sylvain is no longer the perfect son he had hoped for so long, and only recently realizes that. Maybe that’s why he’s sent at the Officer’s academy. Put some sense into his head.

Then comes one of the worst week of Sylvain’s life. He’s eighteen, and old enough to lead troops into another skirmish near the Sreng border. He does as is commanded, as always.

The siege takes forever. Longer than Sylvain anticipated. The Ethereal moon is upon then, with it the biting cold from the north.

He experiences withdrawal for the first time. He thinks he’s truly going to die there, the shameful general, whining in his tent because he craves something that he’s run out of. He doesn’t remember much from that time either. Only that he went through hell and out, and begged, but nothing ever soothed him.

Unsurprisingly, they abandon the siege and concede the win. Sylvain is brought back to the Gautier estate, and is informed he will meet with his friends before his school year starts. To _Remember some bonds are stronger than others_.

He’s still clean when the date approaches. They are all in Fhirdiad, Ingrid has more color on her cheeks now. Dimitri and Felix don’t exchange a single word during the entirety of the meeting. It feels painful, but in a normal kind of way. Sylvain surprises himself with his ease at picking up the broken pieces, getting them all to smile at least once. It’s normal. They’re alive. Life goes on.

It doesn’t last long, it never does. Sylvain uses again, as he watches his servants packing up his stuff for his chamber at the academy. He doesn’t even know why, simply that he needs it. Maybe he’d felt too good lately. Maybe not enough.

He reunites with his friends, and Ingrid asks him if he’s fine. Sylvain wants to ignore her, but even Felix is looking at him with worry. Felix. The guy that hadn’t even addressed him more than two kind words in the past year.

It’s after, when knocking on Linhardt’s door, that he understands. He doesn’t do it because nobody cares. He isn’t ruining himself because there’s nothing to fall back on, no real place for him anywhere. He’s doing it because in spite of all that, some people care. In spite of everything, they _care_.

And Sylvain has the visceral need make sure they don’t anymore.

* * *

"And what’s that?” He points at the jars. He knows about Claude’s concoctions in general, his interest in poison, but he never mentioned the contents of those jars.

He follows Sylvain’s line of sight, until it lands there and stops. An easy smile appears on his face. “Mushrooms.” He looks at Sylvain. “We aren’t allowed to make them grow in the greenhouse. Sometimes just smelling them is enough to cause… effects.”

Now Sylvain is more than interested. He steps closer, eyeing the shelf with more care. “Effects?”

“Depends on the variety obviously, but I prefer the more harmless ones. Some even take days before acting up, making it untraceable.”

Sylvain snickers. “What, to play pranks? Don’t tell me you couldn’t kill a man with one of those.”

Claude is silent, and when Sylvain turns to look at him there’s no humor in his eyes. “I’d rather it doesn’t come to that.”

 _But you’re prepared_ , Sylvain doesn’t voice. After all, whoever it is that angered Claude or is causing him too much trouble isn’t Sylvain’s business. He knows better than to press on such matters. Instead, he keeps his tone cheerful. “What about the other effects? Anything I’d enjoy?”

Claude’s expression shifts infinitesimally. Then, like he had been rehearsing it, “Even if they had, I still wouldn’t give it to you Sylvain.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his disappointment. He had hoped Claude wouldn’t care, be like Hubert, but that is not the case. Sylvain had prepared for that too. “Well, worth the try.” It doesn’t seem like Hubert is coming in today, and Sylvain is tired. He turns the other way.

Claude’s voice stops him. “It really isn’t my place.” He starts, a bit louder than before. Sylvain doesn’t look at him. Cannot. “But if it was up to me, you’d never step foot in this room ever again if not to play chess.”

Sylvain huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Why, cause it makes you _uncomfortable_? Sorry, but I won’t accommodate to your tastes, Riegan.” He waves goodbye, not looking back. “Later.”

* * *

They’re in the changing room when Felix’s gaze stops to stare at Sylvain’s bare skin. He doesn’t even seem to notice how long he takes to stare, until Sylvain crosses the distance between them, eyes glinting mischievously. Felix’s gaze snaps up to his. “Like what you see?”

Unsurprisingly, Felix gets annoyed. “You’re so fucking stupid.” His eyes go back to stare, but in a bold move his fingers come up and trace Sylvain’s shoulder. “You’ll have that scar forever.”

Sylvain thinks that’s true. He hums in agreement, and leans to whisper in Felix’s ear. “And you to remind me of it.” It is, admittedly, an asshole move. And accomplishes its purpose perfectly: Felix doesn’t as much as look at him the next week, doesn’t even get angry when Sylvain refuses to join sword training. It’s a win win. Felix gets to have a reason to hate Sylvain, and Sylvain doesn’t have to face the _guilt_ in Felix’s eyes.

* * *

As it turns out, Hubert can get pretty knowledgeable pretty fast if he sets his mind to it. Sylvain has to hear him complain that _it is quite a waste of time_ , _it’s too soft_ , and he has _more important things to do_. The last one might as well be his catchphrase. Sylvain imitates him sometimes, but that doesn’t amuse the man nearly as much as Sylvain himself. Not a lot of things amuse Hubert, so that’s okay.

The first time Sylvain gets what he’s due, it’s under of the form of a common forbidden spell supposed to make one lose their inhibitions. It happens that Sylvain doesn’t really feel any different, except for the tingly feeling in his fingers. Hubert looks disappointed, but reassures Sylvain this is very low level spell and that he shouldn’t have expected much. They don’t attempt anything else.

Sylvain is growing a bit tired of all the waiting. He’s been Hubert’s little toy for a few weeks now, and has only been rewarded in bruises and scowls. Not exactly the deal he’d signed up for. In the meantime, he’s more alert on the battlefield and proves to be actually useful. Of course, that doesn’t get him any praise. Who would be rewarded for doing the most basic, expected task?

Byleth does compliment him. But because it’s Byleth, Sylvain pettily thinks it’s worth horseshit.

* * *

“What is that?” The sweet voice asks, fingers trailing down Sylvain’s back.

Sylvain doesn’t immediately register the question, lost in his own thoughts. When it finally does, he hums. “What’s what. Describe.” He pretends he doesn’t know what she’s looking at, but in the back of his mind the memory of Hubert touching this very area haunts him.

“It’s like… a mosquito bite.” Her finger draws circles. “The skin is really pale here. And here… it’s really red. Actually, violet. I don’t know. What did this to you?”

Sylvain chuckles, the image of a displeased Hubert popping into his mind. “Can’t remember.” He wiggles his ass. “Like it?”

She giggles too. “Stop! I mean, the scars are a little hot. You have so many of them, you don’t even remember where you got them from.” She leans to kiss Sylvain’s back, starting from his neck down to his buttocks. “You’re so hot.” More kisses. “Does it activate?”

“What?” Sylvain rasps.

“Your crest. You know, when you get really into it? I’ve heard rumors you broke multiple beds like that.”

Sylvain deflates. “No, it doesn’t work that way.”

She doesn’t question him further. When she’s done with his back, she flips him around, her hand goes to cup Sylvain’s cheek. It awakens troubling memories. Her other hand reaches for yet another scar, and Sylvain gasps. His dick agrees for a round two, and if he’s more enthusiast this time around she doesn’t mention it.

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t talk to Hubert that much outside of the chess club. Mostly because he’s still Edelgard’s babysitter, but especially because Hubert acts like Sylvain does not exist. Any attempt to greet him is met with disgust, if not completely ignored. That doesn’t stop Sylvain from winking at him every time he can, to rile him up and remind him he has a job to do.

It culminates with Hubert angrily cornering him in the gardens, scowling. “I would very much appreciate if you stopped bothering my lady every chance you get.”

Sylvain is the picture of nonchalance. “Oh hello Hubert! What a pleasure to able to talk to you during daylight!”

He’s afraid Hubert will actually strangle him this time. He proves to have more self control than that, but it’s a near thing. “Gautier.” He warns dangerously.

Sylvain sighs. “Is it a crime that I sometime wish to speak to you? Listen, I’m actually sorry if that bothers Edelgard, but I’m mostly doing it to annoy you and no one else.”

Hubert looks for the lie in Sylvain’s words, but finds none and takes a step back, finally cooling his features. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

Probably because he has a death wish, Sylvain is quick to add. “As if you don’t love it, naughty Hubie.” This time, Hubert is tugging at his collar with no little reserve, closing the little space between them. He has murder in the eyes, and Sylvain doesn’t yield. A lot could happen, Sylvain feels it, feels how every movement counts and – somebody coughs, and Hubert drops him just as quickly.

Manuela is staring at both of them from a few feet away, hand to her mouth. Sylvain offers a sleazy smirk. Hubert runs away.

Sylvain counts it as a win.

* * *

Maybe it’s revenge on Hubert’s part, but the next time Sylvain cries it’s of happiness. He feels like he’s floating, his brain slows, until he reaches absolute bliss: his heart stops beating. In that second, the whole world turns upside down. He doesn’t hate Byleth that much anymore. He’s free. He melds into nothingness, until he can’t tell himself apart from the rest of the world.

He thinks he remembers Hubert being with him, but he can’t really tell. He knows he walks through and out of the monastery, until he collapses under the stars.

* * *

Ingrid yells at him with rare ferocity. He isn’t taking this month’s mission seriously. He is slacking off. He hasn’t been himself. But how could he, he wants to argue, when he can barely stop his hand from shaking?

Hubert used that spell again. And again. As many times as Sylvain asked, actually. Until one day, he stopped. Sylvain had no idea he could despise someone with as much force as he despises Hubert. He thought he hated himself, but that pales compared to how much he craves to see Hubert suffer in his stead, how much he wants to see this man cry, beg on his knees, and hurt hurt hurt.

Like a prison guard, Hubert now only seeks Sylvain’s company directly in his room. To check on him, officially, to humiliate him, in reality. Sylvain knows there’s no way he isn’t jerking off to this when he’s done mocking him. He takes great pleasure in watching Sylvain suffocate, begging despite himself, losing his temper all too quickly. Maybe he had planned on this, Sylvain thinks.

Never again, he promises. Never again he wants to live through that.

* * *

He comes back to Hubert like clockwork. Claude doesn’t look at him, but Sylvain knows he knows. He had tried to warn Sylvain about that, in his own way, once upon a time. Now they are back to pretending nothing is going on.

Hubet has him lying on his stomach, drawing a sigil directly on his skin. His fingers only feel cold, Sylvain shivers more than once. He imagines Hubert lingering in more than one place. Whatever it is that he’s doing, Sylvain feels it draining out his life. It doesn’t last very long. Hubert cleans him afterwards, until there is no paint left. This time, Sylvain doesn’t imagine the way Hubert takes all his sweet time, more gentle than he’s ever been. That is another kind of torture.

They don’t speak afterwards.

* * *

He makes the girl come five times, himself reaches climax three times the same night. He’s completely spent, happier than he’s been for the couple past few days. Fuck Hubert. Fuck his spells, his scowl, his devotion to Edelgard. Sylvain has this. The most mind blowing sex on Earth.

* * *

Sylvain isn’t really one for revenge. If he hates someone, he always finds a way to redirect that anger towards himself and hurt himself instead. If someone hurts his friends, he makes sure they don’t ever again but it never comes from a place of pure uncontrolled rage. He doesn’t take pleasure in the suffering of others.

Hubert is the new exception. Because the man has no qualms hurting people in the worst ways, he must prepared to receive the same kind of attention. Sylvain will have no qualms hurting him as deeply as he hurt him.

That is why when he sees a free seat next to Edelgard in the dining hall he takes it. Hubert, across from her, is more pissed than he’s ever seen him. Sylvain is delighted. He makes gross attempts at flirting with the lady – something he would never have dared on his own – and completely ignores the fuming Hubert.

Amazingly, Edelgard seems to find that rather amusing. That shuts Hubert up, and Sylvain gets to spend his lunch with the heir of the Adrestian empire like it’s no big deal.

* * *

The dark merchant comes to town. He’s not affiliated with Yuri. Sylvain pays him a visit.

“Want some?” He later asks Hubert. Hubert answers something along the lines of how foolish, how inappropriate, how unprofessional that would be. Sylvain stops listening.

It’s no where near as strong as Hubert’s spells, but it gets Sylvain going. That’s enough.

* * *

The meals with Edelgard become a routine. It gets on Hubert’s nerves every time.

* * *

_Oh, he definitely jerks off to it_ Sylvain thinks.

Somehow, they’ve made it a habit to sometimes play chess before they get into anything. Sylvain suspects Claude goaded Hubert into playing with him as well, making the chess club match its name for the first time. Hubert is good player, but a predictable one. He loses to Sylvain many times. Curiously, he never loses against Claude. Claude on the other hand, always win against Sylvain.

Distractedly, he thinks that they should have a tournament some day. That is, if Hubert managed to keep it in his pants when he inevitably starts losing. Like right now, legs crossed uncomfortably, lost in thought as Sylvain once again has no mercy in making sure Hubert cannot win.

They always talk afterwards, about anything, because all they can mutually think about is Hubert’s half hard going soft again. He’s always in a relatively good mood after that. A bit cranky, but adorably so.

That’s how one day he proposes to teach Sylvain the sigils he usually uses for him. Sylvain doesn’t refuse.

Under Hubert, he finds that he actually can learn as quickly as his friends claim he can. He’s a natural, and his calligraphy is impeccable. Too good, apparently.

Hubert still provides for him, but makes a point to avoid Sylvain with outstanding ease during the next week. They never speak about the sigils again. Edelgard doesn’t want him at lunch anymore.

Sylvain is almost tempted to ask what exactly happened that day, when the answer comes to him rather unexpectedly one night under the form of gloved fingers closing around his throat.

“I know what you are.” Hubert whispers, even though it’s the dead of night and no one is around. There’s a real threat in his voice, and it scares Sylvain. “I don’t know how long you think you’ve been fooling us, or how you managed to escape my notice, but not anymore. You will not approach Edelgard ever again.” Sylvain almost chokes, but when Hubert is done talking the hands leave his neck. He coughs, trying to fight for air, and just _say_ something, anything, but Hubert is gone.

Sylvain slumps against the floor, left with more confusion than actual answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the feedback on this fic has been lovely thank you so much!!

“You are in good terms with Felix Hugo Fraldarius, correct?”

Dorothea twirls a strand of hair around her finger, looking bored to tears and wholeheartedly uninterested – Hubert knows better. Admittedly, she is quite a good actress. The promise of gossip, of Hubert asking her a genuine question, is more than enough to grab her attention. She hums, not quite bothering to look at Hubert. “Maybe. Why do you ask, Hubie?”

So far, so good. “I need information. I believe I can count on your help to get it.”

That gets Dorothea to look at him incredulously, evidently not having expected Hubert to be so forward about his request. “Oh my, you? Asking for help? That must have been painful.”

Hubert does roll his eyes, as annoyed as he had predicted to be. But he wouldn’t be doing this if he had another option. “Yes, Miss Arnault. And it would be _lovely_ to move on now.”

She smiles knowingly. “Well, since you’re asking so nicely, I don’t see why not. Do elaborate, what has the prickly swordsman done to you?”

“Lord Fraldarius is well acquainted with Sylvain Jose Gautier. I need… to know some things, at his subject. Things only a close friend would.”

“And I guess you won’t tell me _why_ you need to know that?” She focuses on the strand of hair again. “It’s true you’ve been obsessed with that Gautier boy for a while. I just don’t see why you can’t ask him directly about it.”

Hubert scowls. “Your judgment hardly matters. Are you amenable to help?”

She returns a glare, not bothering to hide her own annoyance. “You do know I’m friends with Ingrid, right? Also childhood friend of your darling?”

Anger takes over, Hubert grits his teeth. “He is _not_ –” He takes a deep breath. “I suppose I haven’t been paying close enough attention. Very well. Do ask her the same questions: Has Lord Gautier, on any occasion, behaved in unexpected manners? Anything, however insignificant, could be crucial.”

Dorothea eyes him with growing interested, or even suspicion. She does not waver and considers Hubert’s words with upmost care and seriousness. Then she sighs, already seeing herself out. “Fine. Maybe I’ll try, maybe I won’t. Just make sure to be extra nice to me, Hubie.” She concludes.

Hubert, although he won’t say it out loud, is grateful. He nods, she leaves. This is the first step of his investigation, one that will surely be more challenging than anything he’s had to deal with before. After all, months on spying on Sylvain Jose Gautier had proved to be completely pointless, the man’s identity and goals infuriatingly and still eluding him. New developments added yet another unwanted layer.

He hears Dorothea talking to someone right outside the door, and Hubert realizes with annoyance he can hear their voices clear as day. The sound of the other voice grates on him particularly. Once their chatting is done, Hubert makes sure to stop the culprit, filling his voice with as much disdain as he can. “Go away, Ferdinand.”

* * *

“Bad mood, Hubert? That was a pretty bad move, are you sure you’re not trying to let me win?” Claude teases, genuine interest barely veiled.

“It seems you have improved.” Hubert answers bitterly, willing the other man to shut up.

“I haven’t, so I don’t buy it. How’s Sylvain?”

Hubert had always thought his classmates lack of perceptiveness was deplorable, but Claude von Riegan changed that opinion. Conversing with that man makes Hubert feel too exposed for his own liking. He stands up, too abruptly. “I forfeit.”

He needs fresh air.

* * *

He sees Dorothea sharing a tea with a rather unwilling Felix in the gardens. Hubert allows himself to feel relieved his plan is working.

* * *

Her hair is messy, and that above all worries Hubert. Edelgard takes great care of washing, brushing it every morning. She looks tired, and does not look at Hubert in the eyes. She is withdrawing, and that scares him to death.

Hubert carries on his shoulders all the blame. He had watched Sylvain, been attentive, and it still eluded him – the possibility he had not been facing a human at all this entire time. The feel of Sylvain’s skin, how he twitches, the rhythm of his pulse and the heat of his body already haunts Hubert’s dreams, he dares not think of it as an envelop for totally different host.

Where Sylvain the human begins and Sylvain the Agarthan ends is a blurry line.

His interest in Hubert, and most importantly Edelgard would suddenly make sense, had Sylvain been sent to keep an eye on them. His outstanding ease and skill with dark magic had been the biggest clue, and Hubert feels like a fool for not thinking about it before.

He needs to make sure he’s correct in his assumptions, and then decide with or without Edelgard’s agreement to do something about it.

* * *

“Did you get bored of him yet?” Claude asks.

“My interest in him has always been about what he could bring to me. You on the other hand, seem to bring it up more often than is reasonable.” Hubert retorts.

Claude does not argue. They work in silence as they usually do.

* * *

Sylvain is being uncharacteristically quiet, and Hubert gives him no reason to change that. He has to wonder if this is an act, to make Hubert feel pity for him, or if the void in his eyes is nothing but Sylvain’s true state of being. How elaborate, but weak. It would take much more to make Hubert care about a monster like him.

He draws blood from Sylvain. Crestology is something he had hoped to never come near, but there’s hardly a way around it now.

He rewards Sylvain with a new treat, imported from Morfis. He brings it to Sylvain’s mouth, gently opens it and makes sure it is swallowed. Sylvain does not comment, but lets his gaze linger. Hubert wonders what he sees, what he thinks in those moments. The answer does not matter.

* * *

Felix Hugo Fraldarius is a competent man, but Hubert had assumed that didn’t necessarily make him a particularly observant one. Once again, he had to admit to being wrong.

“You thought you were being subtle? What’s your deal with Sylvain, what do you want?”

Felix corners him in the dining hall, right before classes begin. Hubert had not planned this turn of event. “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid I don’t know what this is about.”

Felix seems angry already, exasperated in a too familiar manner. “Don’t play dumb. Sylvain’s been friendlier with you, and suddenly people from your class ask me about him? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“People?” Hubert asks, sounding surprised. He’s quite certain Dorothea had been the only one aware of Hubert’s personal investigation. Felix’s frown tells another story.

“Just answer my question. Why do you suddenly care about Sylvain’s past.”

Intent on not answering the question, Hubert says instead, “I fail to see how people asking about Sylvain links to me. Sylvain may seem friendly with me, but I can assure you the feeling is not mutual.”

“Oh, so it’s a coincidence Dorothea and Ferdinand asked me the exact same questions, the exact same day? It’s a coincidence he no longer shares meals with you and your lady? You don’t actually expect me to believe –”

“I do,” Hubert interrupts. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to do.” He leaves no room for argument and turns on his heels.

Felix says something about unfinished conversations, but Hubert is too preoccupied by elaborating plans to murder Ferdinand to care.

* * *

It’s hard to pinpoint when it started, but it is obvious Sylvain has acted strange periodically during his entire life. Instances of him acting unlike himself are not lacking, so much that him acting normally has become more unusual than the opposite. There is no age, no big change, or anything that indicates Sylvain Jose Gautier is actually dead.

Could it be he simply is alive? That, born _blessed_ with a crest, a home and a pretty face, he finds a way to hate his life so much that he needs to metaphorically escape it all the time?

Hubert doesn’t know how to feel. Is it a relief, that Sylvain may be no threat to Edelgard? Is it upsetting – and it is strange to think – that Sylvain has known what Hubert does to him for the most part of his life?

“What,” Sylvain says when asked, “you want me to give you my biography? What is it that got you curious Hubert? Thought you ‘knew what I am’?” Hubert does not comment on that. Sylvain huffs. “This,” he continues, pointing at his intoxicated self, “is what I am. Do I need to tell you how I got started? My relapses? Oh, do I tell you about the well, or the mountain story?” He laughs. “Sorry, got off rail. This isn’t about me, it’s bigger than that.” He pins Hubert with a gaze that should not hold so much clarity. “You saw something in me that isn’t there, but it scared you. I have no clue what it is, and obviously you want to keep it that way, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’m a good boy, I won’t tell anyone.”

Somehow, that helps to convince him Sylvain is no Agarthan.

* * *

Sylvain does not cry in front of Hubert, not if he can avoid it. Sylvain would definitely never cry in front of Claude, at all cost.

Yet he does, and the sob resonates painfully in the chess club room. Deadly silence follows. Claude does not move to comfort him, Hubert doesn’t even know how to feel about it.

“Later.” Sylvain announces as he scrambles to go away. Claude does not follow after him.

Sylvain doesn’t show up for the next couple of days.

* * *

Ingrid and Felix do not bother to hide their resentment through their respective glare. Hubert does not know what Sylvain told them, but Felix never comes asking him about anything any more. He should be grateful for that, and thinks of a way to thank Sylvain for it. His growing dept towards Sylvain vaguely annoys him.

* * *

Hubert needs more equipment from the Abyss, but merchants progressively refuse to sell him anything. He quickly learns he owes this to Yuri, and makes a mental note to inform Edelgard he does not want him on their side for the war.

* * *

Linhardt knocks on his door well past suitable hours, smiling wider than Hubert has ever seen him. He looks like he ran here. “Hubert, whose blood exactly did you get? It’s – right now, I need to know right now, and ask them – so many things –”

Dread mixed with extreme curiosity fill Hubert. He had not been capable of analyzing the sample of Sylvain’s blood perfectly, and had handed it to a pretty excited Linhardt. He had not expected much to come out of it in the end. “Linhardt. Calm down. What happened?”

It serves to make Linhardt even more joyous. “I’ve never seen this. Hubert it’s –” He takes a deep breath. “It’s like the minor crest is morphing into a major one.”

Hubert nearly wants to laugh, the way Sylvain definitely would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully more tears next chapter!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D

Sylvain is feeling awesome.

He can still feel the ghost of Hubert’s hand around his throat each time he manages to see the guy, and the level of disgust in Edelgard’s eyes can only compare to the one he’d seen in Miklan’s eyes right before his death. Sylvain is so used to rejection, it almost feels like coming home. He’s glad Hubert had been forthright with him, and that he doesn’t have to wonder what exactly he’s done this time around to provoke their wrath.

He had committed the great crime of being someone. Well, that isn’t exactly true, but Sylvain has much more pressing matters than examining Hubert’s exact words and their meanings. Such as, running from a very angry, and armed, older brother. That should count as training, he distractedly thinks, with how much running he does. He’s breathless by the time he’s found a street dark enough to hide in. The smell of piss and vomit isn’t exactly enough to deter him, and he sits, catches quietly his breath. He’s a champion at that.

He sees the guy stop around the corner, peek at the disgusting alley, grimace and keep going. Sylvain sighs in relief, and ignores the dubious substances on his boots.

Worth it, he decides. The younger sister in question had a beautiful bottom, and her giggles were charming enough.

* * *

“I know what you did!”

Sylvain tries to appear as candid as he can. He knows how these things go – the girl will go easier on him if she thinks he truly had no idea his actions would hurt her that way. “What? Lucia I – I don’t know what you are talking about.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re not playing me twice. Emily? The cobbler’s daughter? Are you going to be pretend you don’t know her either?”

“Emily? Lucia, trust me, this is a misunderstanding!”

He expected a slap, but not quite that early. She’s strong, it hits hard, the sting pleasantly lingers. “I know who you are.”

She does not want explanations, because there’s none to give. Sylvain gives up. He shrugs. She almost slaps him a second time, just for that attitude, but she holds back. Go on, Sylvain wants to beg. Give it your all. He’d do anything to get that second slap right now. He deserved it.

There’s no running away from _who he is_ , right?

* * *

Flayn goes missing. Seteth’s worry would be funny if it weren’t actually a bit worrying. Sylvain laughs at it either way. He still hopes that, wherever Flayn has gone, she isn’t in danger.

When the classroom goes quiet and his gaze wanders, he wonders if his disappearance would cause half the concern she gets. Probably not. He supposes it’d take the time before his next letter to his father is due, and couple days, to maybe have people worry about his whereabouts. Ingrid, surely, would notice that he’s skipping class, and hunt him down for an hour or two. Felix would tell her not to worry about it, that Sylvain is probably impaled in a field somewhere for crimes of premarital sex, and will be back soon.

Maybe Dimitri, as the class leader. He’d listen to Ingrid, who listened to Felix, about Sylvain being back soon. He’d wait a couple more days. Then maybe they’ll start looking for him, if he’s lucky.

What is stopping him from going, then?

He closes his eyes, has a little prayer for Flay hoping that she’s safe and sound.

* * *

“This seat’s taken?”

Claude grins, invites Sylvain to take with a polite hand gesture. “All yours.”

Sylvain is ready to lose to him, once more. He finds it hard to focus on anything. The atmosphere inside the monastery is tense, stifling. There’s only that much opportunities to escape to Garreg mach’s town, and now Sylvain is bored enough to go back to the chess club room. He doesn’t exactly miss spending time with Hubert, except he kind of does. Claude is a good replacement.

He would be, at least, if he could focus the way he usually does. Halfway through, Sylvain gives in. “What are you thinking about?”

Claude crosses his arms, eyes fixed on the chessboard. “Sorry. Still thinking about Flayn.”

Sylvain can’t bring himself to be annoyed. Exceptionally, he wins, and leaves without small talk.

* * *

There’s a tree, in Gautier. There are a lot trees there, actually, but this one’s a bit different – it stopped growing a long time ago. When all plants go greens, the tree keeps its dead look and stubbornly stays upright. Sylvain’s father told them, when they were little, that it stood that way when he was a child, and that his father told him the same thing, and his father before him.

The dead, or the ones stuck halfway, are a strange thing to worship, Sylvain thinks. Yet the tree stands, and the Gautier family keeps it that way in their small garden. No one is allowed to cut it, touch it. Even if everything that grows near it rot, and mages warn them of its toxicity.

Miklan dared him to touch it, the night of his tenth birthday. He’d pestered him, called him out on his cowardliness until he gave in and took the challenge.

It was cold, in a way that reminded him of dead animals. But under his fingers, he almost felt it move, like a beating heart that couldn’t bring itself to give up yet. He felt that only once – the day his father let him hold the lance of ruin, proud. He remembered looking at it, feeling death, hearing the laments of people long gone.

He’d fallen sick with a bad fever the next day. He hated the pain – but hated the memory of the tree even more. He convinced himself Miklan had done something to it, to trick Sylvain. The pain would not go away, and Sylvain eased it the only way he could.

* * *

There was a time, Sylvain found it impressive, maybe even funny. Now he hates that Felix’s eyes see so clearly through him. “What’s up with you.”

Cleverly, Felix picked the only time Sylvain can’t pretend he’s in a hurry. After lunch, right before class. Sylvain doesn’t think he underestimated Felix’s abilities, he simply underestimated his willingness to talk to him. “Well, you see, this is the third time I gift Helena flowers, and all I get is that weird side-eye, but I’ve told her–”

“Alright, okay. Keep being an asshole.”

Sylvain is more than happy to. He tells himself he’s not disappointed it took so little to drive Felix away. Then again, he’s gotten pretty good at that.

* * *

He isn’t supposed to use the lance to train, or even on the battlefield. Skirmishes don’t justify it. Sylvain is happy that he can just ignore its existence, and shelve it as quickly as he gets possession of it.

But today, he went to the Abyss. Unfortunately put on some glasses, and read every book he could find about dark magic. Curiosity didn’t push him, necessity did. He’s mildly sober, and keeps thinking about what Hubert said, or rather, what he didn’t. The strange case of Monica’s return is an unexpected layer that amplifies Sylvain’s concern. Hubert looks at her with disdain – normal, of course – but also disgust. If it was just that, Sylvain would simply pity her, but she gives off the same odd vibes old Thomas do.

For the first time in years, Sylvain is reminded of that tree. Dead, but not really, clinging to life by any means possible. He’d assumed Thomas simply felt that way because he is, truly, old, but Monica is the opposite.

The books don’t teach him anything. He tries to hold the lance, that night, watch it quiver and squirm. It feels the way it always does. Sylvain doesn’t learn anything new.

* * *

He changes group studies to focus on magic. He tells himself he’s not really taking it that seriously, or that he won’t actually work on it.

He goes to the chess club, and surprisingly finds Hubert there. He’s looking more tired than usual, if possible, and Sylvain doesn’t have it in him to put up an act. He nods in Hubert’s direction, notes that the operating table is ready to welcome him. He doesn’t waste any time, undresses and lies down.

Though, it seems Hubert is more troubled than Sylvain had thought. He watches with rapt attention Sylvain’s body, waits for something. Nothing happens.

Hubert sighs, takes one of his many needles. There’s no warning before it pierces Sylvain’s skin, swift and painless. Sylvain catches himself thinking Hubert would be an extraordinary good healer, if his _repertoire_ allowed it. He waits for the new substance to hit, but instead Hubert takes blood from him. It’s a quick operation, and Sylvain doesn’t even think about asking Hubert what he’s trying to accomplish with it.

Sylvain tries to sit up, but a gloved hand pins him back down. He’d like to say he doesn’t shiver under Hubert’s gaze, but it’s a useless lie. For the past week, Hubert only had scorn for him, but now he sees Sylvain. He sees him, truthful and unyielding, and Sylvain likes it as much as he hates it. He can’t run away now.

Hubert reaches for something neatly prepared, nudges it close to Sylvain’s mouth. Sylvain has no other choice than to part his lips, agonizingly slowly. Hubert smirks, wicked but strangely sincere. Sylvain has his mouth fully opened now, and on his tongue Hubert’s gift. If he closed his mouth now, he’d certainly feel Hubert’s gloved fingers, he could suck at them, tempt him with his skill.

He doesn’t, he’s frozen. Hubert withdraws his hand, just enough to tap Sylvain’s chin and make him swallow. Sylvain doesn’t even care to know if Hubert is poisoning him, and drinks the sight of Hubert above him like a man dying of thirst.

* * *

Thomas is occupying a dark corner of the library, Claude is studying books Sylvain doesn’t recognize a bit farther from there.

Sylvain remembers, and as it hits him, he throws his hands in the air, “It’s not dark magic, it’s ancient magic!” He giggles, looks at Thomas’ old, old face, turns back and walks around the monastery.

That tree stood for an eternity, and the magic from Hubert’s sigils is just another variation of old. He sees Monica, on the training ground, and she’s just so old. Like the roots from that tree, like the magic in his blood, it’s all so boringly _old_.

* * *

Dimitri is looking at him, brows furrowed, looking as concerned as he physically can at the moment. “Sylvain, are you sure you are quite alright?”

Sylvain’s sure, pretty sure, that he’s quite alright. He knows what they’re talking about, and could recite from memory the words Dimitri told in the identical order he said them. He’s alright. “Of course, your Highness.”

Dimitri doesn’t relax, doesn’t drop it. Sylvain holds himself taller, makes sure he looks as sober as he can. “Sylvain, Ingrid and Felix told me… Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But they are worried, and they will soon confront you about it.”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. It is unlike Dimitri, to disobey their friends like that. “Yeah? Why are you telling me this?”

“What I mean to say is, if there’s anything you wish to talk about, I will always listen,” he offers politely. He’s overly nice, Sylvain thinks. But the kindness in his tone cannot be completely faked. “I know how hard it can be, and if… you can find it easier to confide in me, I’ll tell Ingrid and Felix there is nothing to worry about.”

A tempting offer. Sylvain chuckles, puts a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Dimitri, you’re the boss, of course I’d tell you if something was wrong. But I’ll tell Ingrid and Felix the same thing I’m telling you now, I’m fine.”

Dimitri doesn’t look too happy about that, but doesn’t push it. He continues talking about their hypothetically strategies for the battle of the eagle and lion.

* * *

Claude comes less often to the chess club, and Hubert is still strongly suspicious of Sylvain. Having the three of them in there, at the same time, is nearly a miracle from the goddess. How ironic then, that not one among them believe in her.

Claude drops everything he had been doing to watch Sylvain surpass Hubert’s tactics in their chess game. He talks more than Sylvain and Hubert combined, and offers advice to both of them as the game advances. Hubert fights it, at first, but lets the deer do as he pleases when it becomes clear he’s not stopping.

Claude is impressed by Sylvain’s intuitions, but because he’s not in the mood to gloat Sylvain shrugs off the compliments. It’s harder to ignore the quick glances, that have nothing to do with chess. Sylvain is even tempted to return them, seductively, to show Claude that he isn’t being very subtle.

Hubert wins. That gets him to talk, absolutely destroying Sylvain’s approach and adding to Claude’s commentary. Sylvain doesn’t really listen to any of it, and likes the way it seems to annoy Hubert even more. He gives cheeky retorts, and Hubert takes the bait every time.

Claude eventually leaves, Sylvain winks at him on his way out.

The conversation dies out, when Hubert has nothing left to argue about. He’s once again looking at Sylvain, as if he’s seeing _him_ again, not someone else. He doesn’t seem to have any experimentation to conduct today, and is happy leaning back in his seat.

Sylvain is about to make an inappropriate comment when, finally, Hubert speaks. “Tell me about yourself.”

Sylvain waits, but Hubert doesn’t elaborate. He has a nervous laugh, replays Hubert’s question in his head again. Everything ever since that night, where hands skillfully wrapped around his throat, the contempt, the avoidance, the accusation, it all leads to this? A question Hubert had never bothered to ask, never needed to, and Sylvain must simply answer it?

“What,” Sylvain starts, “you want me to give you my biography?”

* * *

“He’s just – awful. Dubious. He looks like he assassinates people, and doesn’t bother to hide it! I don’t know how you could think – how you could trust him.”

All she’s saying is true, Sylvain thinks. “Yeah, I agree. He looks like a dumb sidekick.”

Felix closes some distance between them, as angry as always. “Then why? For once in your life, make some sense!”

Oh, Sylvain realizes he has a headache. That’s not looking good. “What’s so wrong about caring about someone? He’s just obsessed with Edelgard, why do you care.”

“Because he’s planning to kill you!” Felix’s face is the perfect picture of seriousness, and concern. He delivers those words with such great confidence, Sylvain almost takes them seriously.

He laughs. Ingrid looks like she might slap him, too, and Felix is frowning harder now. It must be part of his training. “Guys, believe me, if Hubert wanted to kill me I’d be dead. That’s what got you all so uptight? I thought you’d welcome attempts on my life!”

At this very second, it looks like Felix might as well do the assassination himself. Humor is not going to cut it, but Sylvain’s head hurts, and they shouldn’t expect much more from him. Ingrid slowly tries to calm Felix, moves him away before he can start spitting more words that would inevitably be hurtful. “Sylvain, we’re just worried about you. Felix – he has good reasons to believe Hubert doesn’t have good intention toward you, and I think you should take that seriously. Please.”

Sylvain shakes his head, lets his hand quickly swipe his face. “I am. I’m taking it seriously. Hubert doesn’t want to kill me, I don’t know what to say.”

“Fine,” Felix finally says, “you don’t think he’s dangerous. Why is he asking about you?”

Sylvain wants to joke that it’s because Hubert wants to get to know him, maybe surprise him with a gift he doesn’t expect. The idea makes him smile. He doesn’t even know half as much as they expect him to. Hubert has all the answers, Sylvain just happened to be there. He must keep the smile too long, Ingrid talks again, more carefully. “Sylvain, listen we think, know, that you use… things. Maybe that’s why you don’t notice the danger you’re in.”

The pulse in his brain pulls harder, Sylvain closes his eyes. He cheers himself on. He’s done this, many times. “What things, Ingrid?”

Felix replies instead. “It’s not like it’s a big secret, Sylvain, half the academy knows where to find Linhardt.”

Sylvain holds onto the flow of the conversation. “Yeah, so what. Like you say, half the academy does it, and they’re not… letting themselves have weird friendships? You realize how ridiculous you sound, right?”

“Hey,” Ingrid waves a single hand in of him. Sylvain tries to look at her in the eyes, but it’s hard when it feels like his own eyes want to pop out of his skull. “Are you yourself right now?”

“Are you high?” Felix bluntly asks.

Not even that much, Sylvain wants to point out. “No! Just a little headache.”

“Do you want to go to the infirmary?”

Sylvain sighs, honestly thankful to be given an out. “Yeah actually, I could use a little care from a lady.”

Felix doesn’t look pleased at all, but doesn’t call Sylvain a faker. He mutters something about Sylvain being insatiable, and that’s Sylvain’s cue to leave. He’s already decided to look for Hubert, when Ingrid unexpectedly foils that perfect plan by following him. “Let’s go to the infirmary, right, Sylvain?” Sylvain is trapped. He underestimated her.

* * *

Manuela makes him lie down for a while, after using white magic to ease the pain. Sylvain’s already feeling much better, but he doesn’t complain. He’s grateful to be out of his interrogation.

Felix ruins that for him, stops by and takes a seat next to Sylvain’s bed. It reminds of the shoulder wound, and he’s tempted to make a remark about that to upset Felix. But Felix doesn’t immediately yell at him, so Sylvain accepts the truce.

That changes the second Manuela informs them that Sylvain is free to go. “I’ll kill him,” Felix says with no warning, “I don’t care that you don’t want to see it, he’s dangerous, and he’s crossed too many lines. If you won’t do anything, or say anything, I’ll kill him.”

Sylvain’s first thought is, Felix will not actually kill Hubert. Felix certainly can kill people, but he doesn’t kill people he shares meals with. He certainly doesn’t kill people and risk to have it reflect badly on Dimitri. Killing Hubert would be a direct attack to the Empire, Edelgard would not take it kindly. Felix will not actually kill Hubert.

But he keeps his posture steady, unflinching, his gaze challenges Sylvain to contradict him. Holy shit, Sylvain realizes, he’s serious. That finally cracks Sylvain’s last line of defense, he gapes openly at Felix. “You’re not kidding.” Felix glares. He is not kidding. Sylvain looks down on his hands. “Not very knightly, huh. No wonder you didn’t want Ingrid to hear it,” he jokes, but there’s no humor left in his tone. He could really use something stronger right now.

It’s up to Sylvain, now, to convince Felix that everything is alright. Felix will not give up until he has a satisfying explanation. Sylvain considers, for one single second, telling him about that night, the one that provoked Hubert’s change of behavior. But really, how well would that go? Sylvain would be telling Felix that Hubert has, indeed, threatened him, and would have to inform him it’s all because of stupid sigils and Hubert’s paranoia about something Sylvain doesn’t even understand. That, and Felix might not even believe him. Sylvain is known to make up crazier things.

“Alright,” he breathes out. “I’ll tell you.” Felix seems to soften for a second, Sylvain almost feels guilty for the lies that will follow. “Hubert’s kinda… providing for me. He doesn’t do that for a lot of people, so I guess he’s making sure I wouldn’t snitch. But now I guess I am. Background check, you know? That’s it.” He hopes it sounds convincing.

Felix stares. Sylvain’s fingers gently tap against the blankets, grounding him. Felix might as well have turned into a statue. He never wears his heart on his sleeve, but this is new, and honestly a bit terrifying. “How long has this been going on,” he asks quietly. The stiffness of his face highlights the concern in his voice.

Sylvain is speechless. He can’t bear to look at Felix. “Just a couple moons,” he replies just as lowly.

He tries to look outside the tainted glass from the window, see the light of the sun. He’d never thought he’d miss the cold up in Gautier, or revisits useless memories of him strolling lazily in the afternoons. There’s nothing remarkable about these kind of moments, just like there is nothing remarkable about having a little headache. Felix’s voice tries to pull him back to reality. “I’m not just asking about him.”

He didn’t particularly hate the hikes. He could walk for as long as anyone demanded of him, could learn the names of trees and animals in the territory. He’d carry a training lance and light armor, light fires in the worst places, sleep in the coldest. That was all training, to prepare him. There’s always conflict, somewhere, to prepare for. Sylvain didn’t hate the hikes.

“Sylvain?”

Felix’s hand covers his, he realizes it made him stop tapping his fingers. He blinks. “I don’t know.” He shrugs, gently pushes Felix’s hand away. “I don’t know, Felix.”

“What do you mean?” Felix presses on. “Was it… after the tragedy?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvain insists on answering. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot, Sylvain.”

“It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I slack off all the time, how is this a surprise? It doesn’t matter. That’s just the kind of person I am. It doesn’t matter.” He still can’t bring himself to even glance at Felix. He knows he’d hate whatever expression he’s making.

“You didn’t tell me. I think that makes it a pretty big deal.”

Sylvain huffs an incredulous laugh, smiles cruelly. “You’re the one who needs to relax, Felix. You know, you should try it, really. Maybe it’ll make you slightly more tolerable than usual.”

Felix doesn’t storm out, nor snap something equally scathing back. Sylvain badly wishes that he did. “You’re acting like that because it upsets you to talk about it,” he states, almost recites, as if he practiced it.

“I’m not upset.” He regrets how obvious he makes it that he is. “You’re the one taking it way too seriously. Hubert’s a paranoid, creepy guy, and I’m doing drugs. Nothing to worry about. Don’t kill the guy, yell at me for not doing my training, and we can both go on with our day.”

That gets Felix to stand up abruptly, and Sylvain to finally look at him. “I don’t know why I bother trying to help you!”

“Then don’t! Is it so hard to understand I don’t want, or need your help? I’m perfectly fine!”

“Fine!” Felix shouts, and finally leaves Sylvain alone in the infirmary.

Sylvain tells Manuela the headache isn’t gone, she sends him away with medicine to help him through the day.

* * *

At the beginning of the year, Ingrid took it upon herself to sew a pocket in her uniform, and keeps there a little first aid kit. She doesn’t do well with magic, and told Sylvain that she wants to be ready at any moment to help someone, even for a simple scratch.

She used it so many times for Sylvain, that the little pocket felt almost like it was there for him only. Ingrid would not admit it, but she thought so too. She’d patch him up if an unfortunate ring cut his cheek, or if a relative from some random girl caught him off guard.

She’d grumble all the way through it, but in the end did it all again the next time Sylvain needed it. Tiny love, unspoken care for him. That helps him heal faster than Ingrid’s little kit.

* * *

Sylvain writes this moon’s letter to his father, and decides to pay a visit to the Abyss’ infamous bar. He doesn’t even like the place, it crawls with old men and stubborn brawlers, and doesn’t have the many pretty ladies Garreg Mach has. Sylvain feels like zoltan lance in the middle of steel swords. Expensive, but definitely out of place. It doesn’t stop him from drinking his sorrow away, wasting a perfectly good afternoon in arm wrestling contests.

By the time he’s stopped keeping track of the hour, a violet flash silences the room. Yuri is amicably greeted by some people, the others must realize who he is after a few minutes. Sylvain unfortunately does too, and can’t make an escape without passing near the boss. Instead he waits and lazily finishes whatever mixture he’s drinking.

Yuri, whom had been standing all this time, chooses his seat right next to Sylvain. It brings attention to them, but Sylvain is a bit too drunk to care. “Sylvain. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Likewise,” Sylvain says just as hypocritically.

“How’s life on the surface?”

Sylvain grins. “Sunny.”

“I heard a rumor,” Yuri cuts to the point, “that you’ve been to our library.”

Sylvain remembers doing that, but doesn’t remember why it felt so important. “I have. Good pornography. Is that why you’re here, Lord Leclerc?” His hand is severely slapped before it can graze Yuri’s thigh. They’re definitely attracting unwanted attention.

Yuri ignores Sylvain’s comments, and failed attempt at seduction. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Sylvain shrugs. “Half burned books are _so_ useful, got all the answers I needed.”

“Maybe you and I are much more alike than you realize. If you need help in your research, I can convince Constance to lend you a hand.”

Sylvain scoffs. “How’s that mutually beneficial? You’re not gaining anything, and I – am not doing any kind of research.”

“Okay, then I am merely proposing my help in case you one day change your mind.” He sounds genuine, Sylvain is inclined to believe this is an earnest offer. But Yuri wouldn’t be in the position he is now if he didn’t know how to sweet talk people, put them at ease.

Sylvain leans on his elbow, hand holding his face. “The answers you want, pretty boy, I don’t have them. Pester Hubert, he’s the one hiding more dead bodies than the church. He hates the sun too, maybe you have more in common with him, actually.”

Yuri doesn’t bother hiding his interest. “Hubert von Vestra?”

“The next Minister of the Imperial household,” he fakes reverence. “So sketchy. I’m surprised, really, that you’re showing interest in me, the infamous skirt chaser, to help you in your ‘research’. Unless of course, it’s just an excuse to get me to offer you a specific kind of comfort, and I’d be happy to –”

“Must I remind you that you were the one showing great interest in our dark magic section? Are you pretending there’s nothing in this for you?”

“I’m just saying, you’re talking to the wrong guy. What’s in this for you?”

Yuri sighs, crosses his arms. Sylvain doubts he’ll get an honest answer, but Yuri surprises him. “This year’s incidents are abnormally frequent. I have been more preoccupied lately, and get the feeling it isn’t going to improve. The church is hiding too many things, and… I’m worried about how unstable the Empire is.”

That’s a lot more than Sylvain can handle, this drunk. “Yeah? What do you think I have to offer you, then? I mean, I’m frankly so far removed from politics it’s kinda –”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Thank you for your time, Sylvain.”

He takes off like a bird.

* * *

There are no ghosts in Garreg Mach’s monastery, nor apparitions of any kind. Suspicious steps, distorted shadows near a cornerstone are far more likely to belong to four-legged friend than an ill-intentioned individual. The occasional easily frightened student might scream a little at an unfortunate meeting with someone a bit too quiet for their taste, or an inquisitive Seteth, but that’s the extent of late night scares in between the tall stony walls of the monastery.

There is no official curfew to follow, and students are allowed, for the most part, to take responsibility of their sleeping schedule. That is why it isn’t unusual to notice some familiar faces roaming the sacred grounds at ungodly hours, going on about their business, not bothering with anything else than a nod. Almost a second family, that comically comes to life only at night as if summoned by occult forces. Sylvain recognizes most of their faces, and he’s sure they do too. It’s comforting in an odd kind of way.

The night is quiet, but not as much as it was in Gautier. The cold home that saw him grow fell asleep along with its occupants, there was little companionship to be found in closed doors and snowed lands. Though the stars followed him to Garreg Mach, and Sylvain can still look at them and wonder if they’ve stayed the same too.

He doesn’t wander too far from the monastery, because that isn’t allowed, and he is unable to cross an imaginary line he didn’t even realize he had built around it. He’s soon walking in circles, not ready to yield yet. The oppressive presence of the night sky brings him none of the comfort he’s seeking. It judges him, reminds him of where he’s not and where he should be.

He doesn’t get any sleep, and makes his way back only by force of habit.

At midday, he visits the town and hopes to catch the eye of a beautiful lady and have a nice, flirty chat with her. His brain is lagging, but he knows he needs as much as he needs Hubert’s spells that sweet thrill of feeling desired, to play that game of hide and seek with a woman’s heart, and the temporary rewards that come with it. If Sylvain’s addicted to anything, it must be those sweet seconds of ignorance of the woman’s true intentions, trying to figure out how much of _him_ she can see.

Then he unexpectedly runs into an old acquaintance, and he’s growing surer the universe is trying to rush him into a premature death. She’s deathly beautiful, hair fancier than most commoners, hands to kill for. That’s what Sylvain allowed himself to remember, because the harsher truth is this: he sees her, and he remembers her kindness, her genuine care in the early mornings and her wise words in the late nights. He couldn’t have seen her for more than a week, but she had stretched time around her and Sylvain isn’t quite sure he recalls even that correctly.

She smiles, unknowingly opening an old wound. Sylvain pretends he cannot recognize her, or perhaps pretends he hasn’t even seen her, but it doesn’t feel as satisfying as it should. “I hope you are well,” she says in passing, not bothering to acknowledge Sylvain’s apathetic expression. She means it, and that twists the knife buried in his chest. She means it, and Sylvain rediscovers himself a coward.

There’s no lingering happiness as he strolls back to the monastery, and he pretends the hollowness he feels is a temporary state of mind, and that he’s isn’t plagued with thoughts of that girl whose name he wants to forget, of Ingrid’s careful fingers wrapping up a bandage and Felix reaching out for his hand. There’s no use.

He has thought about telling them, even though it never was an option. Felix can scream and shout, reproach Sylvain for not mentioning it, in the end he’d done the same after the tragedy. Closed up, stopped opening up to them in the rare moments they could see each other, and coped his own way. They all found something new to worship. If for Ingrid it is knighthood, and Felix power, than Sylvain’s pretty sure it is quite ironically that tree for him. The distance between was always supposed to grow, in different ways, but Hubert ruined that too and now Ingrid and Felix _know_.

The headache keeps him company through the afternoon. It’s humiliating enough that Felix doesn’t yell at him, or that Ingrid offers him some advice for his lance training, but Dimitri adds another layer by talking calmly to Sylvain far from the others. Considerate, understanding, and Sylvain nearly lashes out. He feels on display, for the world to see, signs pointing at him that _he actually has feelings!_

He shrugs off the class leader’s concerns, and against his better judgment decides to find Hubert.

Even there, stuck on a creaking chair in an old forgotten room, he can’t close his eyes for more than two seconds. Claude has noticed, and probably even knows that his friend know, and that’s different from him just being there to witness it, and Sylvain can’t escape it. Does he look at Sylvain the way his friend do, all concerned and hurt? Does he look at him the way Hubert does, apathetic, having seen too much to be surprised, not caring at all for a poor boy’s sad feelings?

All Sylvain knows is that he can’t get rid of his pathetic status, like a second skin he can’t get out of. It doesn’t matter what Claude, or Hubert see.

A painful sob echoes in the chess club room.

* * *

He’s pretty sure he’s still in a weird fucked up dream when Edelgard herself picks her seat across Sylvain’s, in the dining hall. She’s looking at him like a convicted criminal, and Sylvain knows this is real because he wouldn’t be able to dream the downright terrifying aura she exhibits.

He notes that Hubert is not far away, standing there menacingly. A pretty standard day so far.

“Sylvain. Can I talk to you?”

He blinks, sets down his fork. He’s too surprised by this turn of event to come up with a logical explanation for it. Maybe she’s into him after all? “Yeah, of course my lady.”

She doesn’t look amused, simply happy that she has Sylvain’s attention. Sylvain wonders if there is something horribly wrong with his perception of reality. “Thank you. First, let me apologize for my behavior. I have been extremely unfair to you, and I will do whatever I must to obtain your forgiveness.”

“Huh,” Sylvain eloquently says. He glances at Hubert, who is distinctively looking at him too. So far, it could still be an elaborate joke, but Sylvain doesn’t see the point behind it. He has already made himself as small as he could, and even had Hubert’s back even though he had no reason to. “Yeah, yeah you have it. Hey, Hubert, buddy!” He waves to him, asking him to join them.

Hubert’s glare speaks for itself. He doesn’t like being anybody’s ‘buddy’, but least of all Sylvain’s. Edelgard looks at Sylvain with honest surprise, speechless. She nods towards Hubert, and finally her shadow comes to sit with them. Sylvain winks at him, enjoying this a little too much. “Your dear Edelgard there apologized for treating me as less than dirt. Oh, do not take this the wrong way princess, I adore a challenge. I was just wondering if Hubert was going to do the same.”

Edelgard looks more amused then, tension physically lifting from her shoulders. She turns to look at Hubert, right next to her, with a teasing smile of her own. “Well, do tell us Hubert. I believe Sylvain asked you a question.”

Hubert is cornered, and Sylvain is genuinely smiling. It brings back memories from before, before the whole mess began. Acknowledging his lady isn’t going to be any help at all, he directs all his venom toward Sylvain. “I do not regret acting the way I did, and would do it again in a heartbeat, Gautier.” It is a quite personal, passionate statement, and Sylvain appreciates the honesty of it. Then Edelgard glares at him, severe, and Hubert’s tone shifts. “And that… was of course misguided. Call it a lapse in concentration. I…,” he looks at Edelgard, and bows his head, “apologize too.”

Sylvain is involuntarily stunned. It isn’t a very good look, but he was certain Hubert never would have agreed to this joke. He finds comfort in the fact that he isn’t the most humiliated one here. Edelgard is watching him again, unyielding. He has to refrain from scratching his neck. “Well, since he’s asking so nicely…” Hubert is pointedly not looking at him. Sylvain almost evades Edelgard’s gaze too.

“I am overjoyed to hear that, Sylvain. I hope we can forget about this awful misunderstanding and move forward stronger than before.”

Sylvain settles for ignoring Hubert, the way the other man is doing, and focus on the conversation. “We?”

Edelgard nods. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you are an amazing fighter, and that your gift for strategy is rare thing I intend to treat as such.” Sylvain frowns. How would she know about that? Hubert remains stoic. “I look at you, and I see a young man with a brilliant future. And that is, believe me, not owed to your crest or status. You are a skilled individual, and that is why I wish for you to join my class.”

Hubert chooses this moment to lock eyes with Sylvain, not so differently than when he’s about to cast a new experimental spell on him. Sylvain does not believes Edelgard’s words, but he believes in whatever is pushing her to say them. She isn’t taking it lightly and the conviction in her expression is a strong, unarguable thing. Sylvain’s mouth is dry.

“I’ll think about it,” he replies automatically. “A gentleman cannot disappoint such a pretty lady now, can he? I just – I think…” He isn’t often speechless, but somewhere between Edelgard’s promising, kind words, and Hubert’s scowl, he is trapped. “I’ll think about it,” he repeats more quietly.

He leaves his plate unfinished, and sees Edelgard’s pleased expression. “Good.”


End file.
